


Brave New Words

by Jackdaws



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, M/M, Pining, Tottenham Hotspur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 04:05:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12903633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackdaws/pseuds/Jackdaws
Summary: He thinks about the transience of youth and beauty, both of which Dele possesses, and the acute signs of love that burn and crackle in his aura. Dier is a fool for leaving him out here, dithering in the cold next to his manager.





	Brave New Words

If the game is about glory, then managing is about humility. On nights like this Mauricio is reminded of it too keenly, when the small crowd at his Christmas party threatens to disperse, when he is tired and preoccupied. There’s a strange atmosphere around the club, an amalgam of dissatisfaction and ambition – one driving the other – a lack of consistency that must be fixed. He’s decided against letting the team celebrate at an upmarket restaurant; it would be inappropriate after a succession of poor results. Even when they play well, when they win, the press focus on the club’s weaknesses, their propensity to fold on big occasions – how they see themselves as contenders before truly earning it.

No, the training ground is a perfectly suitable venue this year. White lights decorate a large fir tree, where snowball baubles jostle on its branches. He can hear the sound of soft, slightly plaintive music of the festive kind beneath amiable chatter. The nutritionist has ensured the fare on offer is light – nothing calorific: diet hot chocolate, sugar free Christmas cookies, and a selection of low-alcohol wine (which he has no intention of tasting – he keeps his own stash). He needs to lose weight, but it’s the stress which makes him gain the pounds with ease.

Why did he leave Southampton? It was easier there, less complicated.

He’s wearing a thick scarf around his neck to nurse an incipient cold, one that’s working its way through the entire staff. A few guests make their excuses and go home early – family gatherings, prior commitments, the usual drivel – he wonders what this signifies. A lack of willingness, a lack of faith? In him, namely. They – the reporters – say he’s not a winner, does not have a winning attitude, and therefore cannot instil it in his team. Nobody admits it to him at training, during briefings or so forth, but he often questions if this is how the players perceive him too: a loser with a gentle face.

Gentle – he had not been so after the losses to Arsenal and Leicester; nor the influx of middling draws. Publicly he stood by the team whilst privately he raged, he condemned. It’s still simmering, somewhere beneath the mild buzz induced by a glass too many of a full-bodied Malbec. Quite frankly, he could polish off an entire bottle tonight.

He watches the players in attendance loitering by a sparsely filled buffet table, heads bent in a constant study of their phones; it’s the pose of every incorrigible technology addict. Where is the eye contact, the human interaction? It’s no wonder they struggle to communicate on the pitch. He’s thought of banning phones at Enfield, but it would only fuel resentment, which lays the foundations of rebellion. Always, he must be one step ahead.

He spots Kane and Dier chattering together in a corner; it’s strange how Dele isn’t in the mix. Rose sulks in the background as Miki and Jesús, his right-hand men, pick over the food. Lloris maintains a faithful effort to be communicable, mixing amongst the players and staff alike; a second set of eyes and ears for Mauricio.

He decides not to mingle tonight, heads out through the glass doors and onto the balcony. He covets space; he requires distance when his mood drops. If anyone wants to find him and talk, they can. With the wine circulating in his blood he doesn’t feel the harsh pinch of cold so quickly, can almost enjoy the vision of the frost sprinkled grounds, where a susurrus wind sways through the tall beds of grass. A distant sound of laughter reaches him from inside. He leans on the rails and nurses a glass in his hands, heedless of the deepening wintriness. In Argentina it is summer, but there is no time for a sojourn to balmier climes.

Before tomorrow’s session Mauricio must give a speech; he ponders the form it should take, the manner. The club is a one-winged bird falling further down the table. Everything must be analysed. They think he has a masterplan, that he can change everything at Spurs. It’s not so. He’s just one man relying on eleven to fulfil his dreams.

Mediocrity isn’t good enough anymore.

The first snowflakes of winter begin to fall as he hears the door open behind him; he moves his face to one side just a fraction, enough to catch the shape, the figure in slow approach. It’s not whom he expects, if he expected anyone at all.

‘Dele.’ His voice is warm, inviting, a hint of surprise (or perhaps drunkenness, though the night is young) lifts the tone. He puts one hand out; Dele clasps it and then lets go. It’s a manly sort of greeting, not very tactile; with Dele that approach, he thinks, does not always work. He cannot be his father, and he is not his best friend. Dele mirrors Mauricio’s posture on the balcony, staring down below with his elbows perched on the railing. A few stray snowflakes gather to melt in his hair.

‘You look cold,’ Mauricio says to him. His choice of attire is a garish Christmas jumper, one that offends the eye and provides little warmth, juxtaposed with a tight-fitting pair of ripped jeans. ‘You want my jacket? You’re shivering.’

‘Nah. I’m alright.’

He’s got a glass of orange juice instead of wine – that’s good. ‘You’re not enjoying the party?’ His smile is small and knowing; it’s hardly comparable to a night out in Mayfair.

‘It’s okay.’ He shrugs. ‘Ain’t really in the mood to celebrate.’

‘That makes two of us.’ Mauricio’s brows are raised. He’s angry inside. He’d like to shout, but needs to keep an exterior of calm, to project a decisive, controlled attitude. It is his job to offer guidance and direction to these youngsters.

He questions why Dele is out here with him; is he looking for a manager’s perspective on his dip in form? Or perhaps a confrontation about Mauricio’s tactics. He sighs and then speaks softly: ‘Are you well?’

‘Yeah. No twinges or nuffink.’ His eyes land on Mauricio now, curious and searching. ‘You okay?’

His bottom lip juts out. ‘Bah, we are all tired, no? Is not easy finding solutions to impossible problems.’ He shakes his head with a tight smile. He’s read all sorts of hogwash online: various theories on their winless run. His new book is being cited as one. Mauricio’s a superstitious man and can’t deny the correlation exists, however absurd. Perhaps it’s the way in which the book was written – the diary entries – the ghost of himself on those pages who prophesied great things.

Jinxes can be unmade.

‘It’s not your fault.’ Dele hovers close, a pleasant source of body heat. ‘We wasn’t good enough, was we?’

He scratches the stubble under his chin. ‘We are suffering, yes. But we show a lot of character.’

He tries to avoid chastising players outside of work. It’s a night off; Mauricio must act as if he’s enjoying the classical rendition of _Jingle Bells_ and the soggy lettuce wraps.

Dele goes very still; there’s a certain gravity about him when he answers: ‘I wasn’t good enough. It’s why you keep taking me off, innit?’

‘Dele, I only ask you to fight for me. To give one hundred percent, no?’ His mouth forms its usual moue; he’d like to say more, but it would be inopportune. There are no prizes, he knows, and no place in history for consistent losers. But it’s the manager who shoulders the blame for unmitigated failures. This get-together is supposed to help rebuild the momentum they lack.

Christmas approaches – a time of hope, for the togetherness of family. The holiday is atypical for a football player; they are set to spend the majority of the festive period in one another’s presence, fractious and frustrated. If only he could understand their current unease, the cause of their lost focus.

Dele stares back at the party with large, shining eyes. He’s looking straight at Dier, who remains entirely unaware.

‘Are you spending Christmas with him?’ Mauricio asks with a discreet nod.

Dele’s mouth fails to work.

Mauricio’s face crinkles with a laugh. He puts a hand on Dele’s shoulder, briefly. He’s very tense. ‘It’s okay. I was young once. I know when players… have a thing.’ He swallows a mouthful of wine. The drink, he knows, leaves him dangerously uninhibited. ‘I’m almost envious,’ he says, and his eyes sparkle mischievously.

He thinks about the transience of youth and beauty, both of which Dele possesses, and the acute signs of love that burn and crackle in his aura. Dier is a fool for leaving him out here, dithering in the cold next to his manager.

‘We don’t have a thing, gaffer. Just mates.’ His breath clouds in the air.

‘I see.’ He bites his lower lip. ‘But you’d like to?’

Dele struggles to hold back a smile. He shakes his head.

‘Háblame en español.’ Mauricio is aware Dele has been learning Spanish, and thinks somehow it could bridge the gap between them.

‘I can’t,’ he answers, followed by a self-effacing laugh. He stares down at his hands and fidgets like a child. It’s partly endearing, this lack of self-assurance. Yet with every passing week Mauricio observes how Dele matures: the harder line of his jaw and the protruding muscles, the challenge in his gaze.

‘Come on,’ Mauricio says with a nudge. ‘Be brave. Life, it goes too fast. Maybe you can’t see it yet. Be brave,’ he repeats. He knows he’s overused that word, killed its impact somewhat. It’s supposed to be easier when you’re young; different partners, long, passionate nights – images he finds almost painful to think back on.

The boys seldom make an effort to disguise their closeness, but they have not been forthright. They have never sought succour from him. It leaves Mauricio feeling like a detective, skulking from his office each morning to watch his players arrive, interpreting expressions, divining information from the snippets he overhears. Fearing what? His authority here at Enfield has never been challenged. Not once. There are, as far as he knows, no factions plotting his downfall.

‘I am brave. I know what I want.’ He looks at him pointedly.

‘And?’

He pauses, withholding whatever truth might slip out. It piques him how Dele insists on veiling his emotions.

‘I want to win things. Trophies. Golden boots. The lot.’

‘And you see it happening here, yes? With us? With me?’ He shouldn’t ask, put him on the spot, but it’s instinctive. He has his fears about him, his doubts. The fans feel it almost as keenly as he does.  
  
Trust and loyalty are no longer inextricably tied to the club’s badge, but dependent on the individual. He knows the details of their medical reports, the pungent smell of their sweat, the rictus they make in pain – but the mind, he’s forbidden in that nebulous territory. He always strives to forge a more intimate bond with his players. Is it necessary? Not for every manager, no. Sometimes his motivations, he must admit, are selfish ones.

‘I want…’ There’s a long sigh. He can see the sinews in Dele’s neck when he cranes his head back, gazing up at the night sky. What comfort does he seek in the enduring light of stars? What does he wish for?

‘You want what, eh?’ He’s frowning, drains the contents of his glass and stares intently at Dele. It’s clear he’s not going to get an answer, or any sort of commitment from him tonight. The kid’s mind is elsewhere – in the grips of commercial behemoths like Jorge Mendes, no doubt. Mauricio doesn’t want to be a springboard for a glittering career abroad, but in reality that’s all he is. This game, he thinks and sighs, has lost so much integrity. These kids don’t struggle in the same way, don’t have the same hunger or passion his generation did. It leaves a bitter taste; it casts shadows where light should fall instead.

‘I can’t – I dunno,’ Dele finally says, then turns from him in a remarkably pensive state.

He’s impossible to read. Impossible to reach. Mauricio longs to engage in adult conversation on topics unrelated to football. He wants to remember what it’s like to fall in love, to feel wanted: Dele must know. It’s exasperating how tight-lipped a companion he is, but then only one of them is drinking. Only one of them is desperate to be touched.

His own needs are always subservient to the club’s.

They stand close to one another, yet as separate as continents, cold but burning within; a fire which consumes them both with tacit need. He thinks about turning Dele to face him, gripping him hard, and then knows he could not explain his motivation – that in English he lacks the words. A fragment slips from his mouth in Spanish, falling to land unnoticed in the blizzard: ‘Quiero…’

It is no use.

Mauricio turns back towards the room and glances through the sizable glass panes. It’s there he meets the unexpected frost of Dier’s stare, which runs through him with an unsettling shiver. He doesn’t react, tries to maintain a cool, impassive face until those wolfish eyes move on.

What if he’s losing his grip on these boys just when he needs them most? Occasionally he can see the path they will take – it’s in their energy field, or it comes to him as whispers in his dreams – but today, nothing. Nothing but a fractious undercurrent of desire and jealousy reaches him, so strong he feels its pulse.

‘I need to go into the office,’ he says in a sudden, low voice. He’s restive, standing on uncertain ground. ‘I’ll see you later.’

He storms through the little crowd inside, knocking shoulders with a guest. Mauricio looks up to find Dier standing in his way like a belligerent warrior.

‘Pay more attention,’ Mauricio says to him.

‘I’m paying plenty of it, thank you.’ Barbed, acidic words offered with the same icy gaze.

‘Well, why are you standing around? Go to him!’ He barks the command as if he’s on the touchline. Let the boys sort themselves out, he thinks, let Dele fall into the arms of a man nearer his own age. How stupid could Mauricio be to entertain the idea – even for a single second – that Dele might seek comfort from him?

 _Joy to the World_ plays in a clamorous key; all conversation in the room has perished by the time he’s gone.

 

 

 

 

There’s a bottle of whisky in a cupboard to the left. He gets it out, refills his glass, drinks it neat – _Dios_ , it’s strong. He’s thinking about tomorrow, possibly taking Karina and the kids out somewhere nice in London. Ice skating, shopping, whatever it is they want. He makes all sorts of plans – like when he bought the tickets to see Rod Stewart once – but they rarely come off. Work devours everything. He’s going to make a resolution to try much harder next year, to nurture his life beyond football.

He has to remember his philosophy of _tranquilidad_. Calmness in all things. He can hold this club together, they can rebuild as one – whatever their differences.

Earlier, he let his secretary decorate the office to her heart’s content. It’s only now he takes the time to see the work she’s done. The side table is occupied by a miniature fireplace where two plastic polar bears cuddle like amorous sweethearts for warmth. Bah! Even the Christmas decorations have a better romantic life than he does. There’s a Santa, poised to throw a light-up snowball at a coquettish elf, and a set of felt gingerbread men (which he suspects she’s made herself). Over the door a lone sprig of mistletoe hangs, which rouses from him a tiny, gruff laugh. He certainly hopes Daniel Levy isn’t going to walk in and expect a kiss.

It’s then he notices an object planted on his desk: a present, wrapped assiduously in gold. He smiles at the unexpected offering and looks immediately at the gift tag.

 _Mauricio,_  
_En verdad me importas._  
_Dele xxx_

He traces the messy handwriting with the pad of one large thumb. _Muy bien_ , he is learning.

Mauricio tears the paper off in seconds, his heart beating far harder than it should. It’s a bottle of cologne – something expensive and modern and fresh. He gives himself a thorough spritz and feels brand new, tingly, on a precipice he can’t yet define. It’s as if a pain in his chest has been lifted, a self-consciousness thawed by the warmth of affection. In this moment he is alive in the most energised sense.

There’s a knock on the door, too insouciant and hurried to be a member of staff.

‘Yes?’

He walks in. He’s there, abashed yet defiant, standing directly under the mistletoe with a smile Mauricio finds hotter than fire.

**Author's Note:**

> I always appreciate comments and kudos. ❤


End file.
